Dr. Ivanlove strode into the Curb Stomp Bar with a wide grin, flamboyantly dressed in one of his "Daddy" outfits. He looked like a kind of transvestite pimp, all jewelry and fur across his body but still exposing large amounts of skin. He had heels on, but the firearms from them were missing. Firearms were forbidden in the bar.
"Such an interesting little place," he murmured sitting down with some of his gang, not at all worried. "A community bar for all to gather…I like it. Restores a sense of camaraderie among us criminals."
A man strode over, a man wearing a tight orange jumpsuit with skid marks all across it. He was holding a bottle of champagne and grinning widely, though he appeared friendly.
"Evening good Doctor!" exclaimed the man, standing a healthy distance away from the table. Protocol was that no one approached another party without invitation or revoked their rights to breathe.
"Evening to you as well Mr. Nitro," spoke Dr. Ivanlove. "You still haven't gotten my name right, but that's forgivable due to your criminal youth. Why do you come to me?"
"Well I came to offer you a bottle of champagne good sir! As a neighborly…thing!"
One of Dr. Ivanlove's men checked the bottle, drinking a small amount of it. After five minutes of not dying, he determined it was alright to drink.
"Thank you very much Mr. Nitro," said Dr. Ivanlove sincerely. He raised his glass. "A toast to the Octanes. May your races be long and your wheels always hot."
"Amen to that brother…sister…person!" yelled Nitro gulping his glass down. He sighed, grinning. "Well, I'm going back to my table! Thank you for your time!"
"No problem at all my friend."
Dr. Ivanlove laid back, analyzing Nitro. He had only arrived a few weeks ago and had already formed one of the most powerful gangs. They built cars out of nothing and raced them in the large infrastructure built throughout the prison's underbelly. Since they did little else and they were always friendly, most gangs didn't mind their presence.
Three more men stepped forward, each one extremely intimidating in their own way. One man wore a simple tuxedo, but the huge array of scars all around his body made him look like he had been through garbage disposal. The second man was dressed very similar to Alan Fitzgerald, his attire nearly identical to a Church priest, along with two bayonets triple the size of Alan's. The third appeared to be on fire, his upper torso and head covered in yellow flames, but no burnt skin anywhere.
"Greetings," spoke the tuxedo man.
"My humble greetings to you, the great Dr. Ivanlove," stated the priest.
"Sup Doc?" asked the fiery man.
Dr. Ivanlove smiled. "Before me stand the leaders of the Professionals, Zealots, and Anarchists. Ready to start the war before it even begins?"
"No," answered the Professional, the calmest of the group. "Here to warn you."
"We may be enemies in this competition, but we are all criminals here," stated the Zealot. "As such, we all have our honor."
"The Deviants are getting antsy Doc," grunted the Anarchist, grinning widely to expose he was literally breathing flames. "Something's up with them."
Dr. Ivanlove scowled. Out of all the gangs, the Deviants were his least favorite. He tolerated of a lot of crimes, but rape was not one of them. "What are they proposing? They aren't part of this competition."
"They want to join," spoke the Professional. They all sat down now, in serious conversation.
"Such heathens don't deserve to breathe, let alone reside in this prison," grunted the Zealot.
"I ain't one for damning people, but even I hate them," snapped the Anarchist. "And if they start getting active again, we're all in the shit."
Dr. Ivanlove sipped his champagne. "I'd prefer not starting another gang war. We had one against the Clowns, and Eddy had to step in for that one. We all remember The Night."
The four people at the table shivered, each one recalling The Night with absolute clarity. During the Clown's reign of terror in the prison, Eddy Tsar was forced to release the Eridian guards constantly for days on end to round them up. Prison population decreased by almost 80%, and any who survived would never forget the horror they had witnessed. Many had already tried.
"Why can't those idiots just stick to themselves?" grunted the Anarchist. "It ain't like they don't have enough masowhatevers to satisfy their fucked-up fantasies."
"Well that's a cute idea, but we're running a bit low you see."
They all turned, noticing that Davis Dahmer had appeared nearby, entering without anyone noticing. He did not have any of his 'masterpieces' with him for once, though his associates were all heavily pierced individuals like himself.
"It's rather simple really," murmured Davis. "A masochist experiences the pain like an adrenaline rush, quickly becoming addicted to it. Eventually, they wonder what the other side feels like, and become a sadist. Unfortunately, it tends to not work in reverse from what I see. So we have all sadists and no masochists. Not a good mix."
The Anarchist spat on the table, standing up. "Well that's funny. So you're just a fucking sadist now? No masochistic tendencies? I thought you liked pain, you sick fucker?"
He grabbed the two piercings keeping Davis's Glasgow grin closed, ripping them off along with a small chunk of bloody skin. He smirked. "So did you like that? Did that feel good you cock-sucker?"
[Richard McGuinness] "Damn that looks painful."
[Scotty "Roundhouse" Dale] "You said it. I winced."
Davis paused, then grinned extremely wide with his eyes full of ecstatic glee. "No, that felt great."
The Anarchist stopped dead, Davis immediately striking. He stabbed his middle fingers into the cheeks of the Anarchist, burrowing through the skin with ease. He hooked him in, staring lovingly into his eyes.
"There's no love in your violence," whispered Davis before savagely kicking him in the chest, shoving him backwards. This caused his fingers to tear straight through his cheeks and take a huge chunk out of them, the Anarchist collapsing onto the table.
"Zodd!" screamed the Zealot, hurriedly clamping a napkin over the bleeding wound. While the Anarchist appeared to be on fire, he only actually burned things when he wanted to.
"Shou fooking basterd…" murmured Zodd the Anarchist, finding it hard to speak without cheeks.
"I recommend a trip to a hospital," spoke Davis, still absolutely friendly. He pointed to his Glasgow grin. "Otherwise you'll look like me. Also, try not to swear so much. It makes you look ugly."
Dr. Ivanlove narrowed his eyes, pulling out a massive revolver from his sleeve. "Violence is not allowed in this place."
"Neither are firearms," argued Davis.
"The difference is, I haven't used my gun yet. You used your weapon already."
Davis paused. "Hmm, fair enough. I have always been told I have magic fingers."
He stuck his middle fingers into his mouth, swallowing the blood and flesh collected on them. His eyes rolled back into his head, pleasure coursing through his body.
"I never considered myself a cannibal, but flesh soaked in pain always has the best taste," whispered Davis.
The Professional made a slashing motion across his throat. "Enjoy that meal. You'll be eating with the Devil soon enough."
"Oh, I heard he has excellent wine. I'd gladly go to him."
Davis turned and walked off, exiting the bar quickly.
"You alright Zodd?" asked Dr. Ivanlove.
"Ah chorse not shu fooking idjut," snapped Zodd angrily. He winced, standing up. "Joing to she doctah naw."
He walked off with his group, the Professional and Zealot remaining with Dr. Ivanlove.
"Is Davis insane?" inquired the Professional. "He's making a lot of enemies."
"He's planning something," murmured the Zealot. "God forbid whatever that heathen thinks up."
"Whatever it is, we need to be on our toes," spoke Dr. Ivanlove. "I never get good feelings around Davis. Unlike most of us, he deserves to be locked away with no key."